flight

We won't be traveling today: there's some concern, it seems, about crossing the open moor in daylight; but supplies are short, and we cannot stay here long. At least here there is water and a few edible berries, but of game there is none except small snakes and bugs, and the odd newt in the scrub near the brackish little stream.

Were I alone, I would strike straight into the moor, for the mountains on the other side are forested, which promises better hunting. I judge it would take me three days to get there, even without food, so long as I had a swallow or two of water.

And I might do just that, if my companions can't come to a reasonable decision, which is proving difficult.

In my mind there are two alternatives to crossing the moor: return to the denser woods we left behind yesterday, where we can at least gather food and water for a longer journey, or else follow this little stream, in the hope that it leads to better country.

Well, there is nothing for it but to wait while the men resolve what to do. The grandmother is wise enough to know she is not welcome in this wrangling, for this is as much about her son's leadership as about which way to set off — it's tiresome, of course, but I suppose there is some benefit to clearing the air: our case is serious, if not yet desperate; in such a situation, it's best for the men to settle where they stand with each other, and the time for doing that seems to be here.

I, the stranger, have something to do with this. Our leader values my presence, and wants me to take part in the deciding, whereas some of the others remain suspicious of me, and one — no mistaking it — wants me gone. I can see Leader wishes to reason with this man, but that is not the way to deal with such a person: every argument made in my favor my opposer interprets as putting him in the wrong, which only makes him dig in deeper, and his temper is rising. Obviously I cannot speak for myself, so I stay out of the way as best I can.

Grandmother pretends not to care what they are arguing about, but she is following the debate with some anxiety: her face betrays nothing, but she is never out of earshot — though of course once the men start shouting, everyone can hear.

My antagonist is on the verge of an open challenge. But I begin to see that Leader has inherited some of his mother's cunning: he's deliberately drawing his opponent closer to that line, trying to get him to cross it sooner than the man wants to, before support has solidified behind him.

But this is wiliness, not wisdom, and the young leader himself is approaching a line he must never cross, that of publicly disrespecting his rival, who will never forgive that, and then there will be no peace until one or the other is gone for good or dead.

At the very moment I realized this, Grandmother looked at me. Without further thought I charged into the circle, pushed the contenders apart, and, shaking my finger in their faces, scolded them for exactly what they were doing. I did not need them to understand my words: I only had to break up the momentum building between them by drawing their anger towards me. Sad how easy this was to accomplish; instantly they both turned on me, and together drove me from the circle.

This of course imperiled my position in the group, but by that time my feigned wrath had turned real, and I wanted to be done with them all...

=====[lacuna]=====

I was gone for only half a day before I regretted leaving and turned back; the rage that impelled me to desert my friends evaporated quickly out on the moor, in its empty vastness and pitiless wind. By then I had lost my sense of where the camp was, and wandered haphazardly until nightfall, when I finally perceived what looked like a campfire on the horizon and headed that way as quickly as I could.

It was in fact a fire, but much larger than I thought at first, and so further away; as I got nearer I saw a whole group of trees ablaze, and then, even closer, charred bodies in among the flames. Whatever I hoped or could think of, there was nothing I could do but sit out on the moor and watch the fire grow, the whole rest of the night.

An hour before dawn it began to rain, and by the time it was light the fire had died down enough so that I could begin to move in, a few steps at a time. As I got closer, I peered at the blackened lumps on the ground: the children were easy to pick out, of course; I could also tell some females from males, but would never be able to tell who any one of them was.

When I could, I counted them. Two were missing.

I paced around what was once the whole extent of the camp, looking everywhere inside and out, but could not find any others — perhaps, I hoped, these two had escaped, and I started searching for tracks. But then a far worse thought came to me: they'd been taken captive.

All this time I'd been telling myself that the fire was a terrible accident, but now I finally had to face the near certainty that this had been done deliberately: the bodies were all within the perimeter, except for the two missing, which meant that my friends were already dead before the trees began to burn.

The attack on the town had never been about the town: it was about me. After seizing it, my pursuers searched for me without success; they found our trail and followed; they had overrun our camp only a few hours before. Missing me again, they slaughtered everyone and set the grove on fire.

It was a message.

I am now without companions. My last was a wood thrush, who in the dusk this morning sang me awake, from a swaying forked branch above where I lay, just outside the line of the burning.

I watched as he hopped from spot to spot, circling what he must have judged to be a good nesting place, for shortly he was joined by a silent female. He fidgeted nearby as she inspected the site, then, apparently approving his choice, she came and went with twig, straw, and fuzz, beginning to build while he fluted encouragement. When I stirred they fled, but once I was up and had cinched my pack, I stood still for many moments, reluctant to leave, and he returned to urge me on, his black eye a glint in the rising light.

As I hiked out into the emptiness of the moor, his melancholy song followed me a long time, stroking my sorrow but warning against hope, until I could no longer tell if that bittersweet strain came from the distance or from within.

I cannot stop weeping. After all this time, and everything that has happened, the cause of my grief seems to be life itself.

Another bird dwells out here on the moor: an hour before dawn, it utters a rapid 'wit-wit-wit-wit-wit!' only once, and then is silent, until, just as the sky begins to lighten, he repeats it, again, only once — 'wit-wit-wit-wit-wit!' — and I know the long empty night is over. His first utterance wakes me; when he sings again, I rise and set off.

I thought I would be across the moor in three days, but it is now the fifth day since I left the burnt-out camp, and the mountains seem no closer. It has been hard to keep my bearings in this monotonous terrain, but there is one peak I'm aiming for, and I strive to keep the sun's path, insofar as I can estimate it from hour to hour, on a consistent angle with my own. But the past two days it has rained steadily, and neither mountain nor sun can be seen.

Some time now since food ran out. Caught a lizard; added a few purple berries and a mouthful of rainwater from a pool in a rock. The sky has cleared, the mist lifted; the mountains are no nearer.

Death has the reach of me now: I feel less fear than I'd have thought. Had I stayed with my friends, there'd be one more charred hump among the trees.

No: I'd be in chains or worse — well, no point imagining that.

Another damn message.